Who knocks at my door
by MLaw
Summary: Napoleon and Illya have some strange experiences while on a courier run. Originally posted for the Tuesday PicFic challenge section7mfu on Live Journal. pre-saga. The story cover door was the prompt.


"Napoleon, I do not like the look of this. I have a bad feeling…"

The American stopped in his tracks, as he'd learned to take the Russian's instincts seriously. He raised his eyebrows contemplating his partner's warning. He stared at the decrepit door,

"Hmm, well unfortunately we have no choice. This is where we're supposed to meet our contact."

"Our contact?" Kuryakin repeated.

"Okay, fine. 'My'contact," Napoleon surrendered.

Illya gave the double doors a careful once over, not seeing the hinges...it looked as if everything were held in place by years of whitewash and stucco.

"I think this will fall apart if we dare touch it," he concluded.

"Your feelings aside partner mine; we still have to go inside. Those were our...my instructions." Napoleon shrugged his answer. "Maybe we could look for another way in?"

Illya bit his lower lip. "That will still not ease my apprehension."

The agents separated, heading in opposite directions around the small building. When the reached the back, they found themselves looking at a door identical to the one in the front…literally identical, right down to the cracks and, well, everything.

"Are we seeing things?" Solo scratched his head.

"Wait here," Illya said, taking off to the right and around the corner, heading back from where they had just from.

A moment later he reappeared, coming from Solo's left side.

"So?"

"Napoleon, I just went to the front of the building but arrived here right where I left you."

"You want to swing that by me again, partner mine?"

"I said I went to the front, and arrived back here instead...how is that possible?"

Napoleon ran his fingers through his neatly coiffed hair. "Let me try."

He took off to his left and moments later he returned from the right, arriving where Illya was still standing.

"Wow…"

"No kidding my friend. You say this is where the contact told you to meet him?"

"Yes and he's a she, by the way."

"Why does that not surprise me?" The Russian said as he knelt in front of the double doors, examining them more closely.

There was a sudden poof of dust and debris, and the doors began to slowly open.

A female voice spoke from the darkness within…heavily accented, sounding Eastern European; though Illya could not place exactly where.

"Who knocks at my door…?" There was a pause, "Ah, you are Solo?"

"No Madam." Illya stood, dusting off his trousers..

"I am," Napoleon stepped forward, craning his neck to look inside.

A small hand with exquisitely smooth and milky white skin reached out from behind the door, offering a manila envelope to him. Her neatly manicured nails were a bright shade of ruby red. That was all they saw, no face...only the hand.

He snatched it and as she started to close the door, Illya stuck his foot in the way to stop her.

"The door...how did you manage it?"

There was a soft laugh. "Ah, smoke and mirrors Mr. Kuryakin. Smoke and mirrors."

"I hardly think that...hypnosis, perhaps?"

"Now that would be giving away my secrets," she pushed his foot aside with hers and closed the door, thus ending any further chance at Illya having his questions answered.

Napoleon wordlessly tucked the envelope into his breast pocket as he waved his partner towards their waiting car.

"You are not intrigued by what just happened to us?"

"Of course I am, but unlike you, I can just take things at face value and not bother to question them...sometimes. We'll get the answers eventually."

"How did you make these arrangements with this woman?"

"She contacted me..I think?" He muttered under his breath.

They stepped up to the new U.N.C.L.E. car, lifting the gull-wing doors and slipping into their seats.

"And I suppose you are not going to tell me who 'she' is?" Illya asked as he started the car.

"Nope." Napoleon squirmed in his seat, acting uncomfortably.

That didn't sit well with Kuryakin at all. He hit the gas pedal, speeding off down the road; the roar of the engine masking the string of Russian epithets spewing from his mouth. He was not one to be put off, and the scientist in him wanted answers.

"Why will you not tell me?" He finally demanded.

"Honestly, it's not that I don't want to tell you. I can't. I have this compulsion not to say anything."

"Really? Have you been drugged?" Illya hit the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt.

"Ummm, I don't know. I do feel strangely though."

"Napoleon do you know what is in the envelope she gave you is about?"

He drew a blank. Pulling it from his pocket, he opened it. There was a handwritten note to Alexander Waverly, with an explanation and accompanying it was a complicated schematic for the construction of a device; apparently it was what had been used with the door back at the building...a way of displacing a physical object, or in this case, perhaps displacing the two U.N.C.L.E. agents.

"Apparently we were just used as guinea pigs," Illya said, putting the car in gear again.

"Looks like it chum. Just wish I could remember." Napoleon was still bewildered, not remembering at all how this all had come about.

Illya sensed his dismay. "Perhaps it will come back to you."

"That begs another question...how did she contact me?" The American massaged his temple with his fingers. He had no memory of a face or any conversation with the woman.

"Too many questions my friend. Sleep on it and perhaps you will be able to recollect things in the morning."

"I hope so chum. I don't want the shrinks trying to get into my head, so mums the word for now."

"Understood."

.

It was three in the morning when Solo woke alone in his own bed. He'd had a dream; a telephone call. The voice, a woman's, gave him instructions. The contact...meeting place given and the words "forget...forget."

He'd been hypnotized over the phone? That wasn't good. U.N.C.L.E. agents were supposed to be resistant to hypnosis. This was a revelation he'd have to keep to himself, and would only tell his partner.

Napoleon Solo had been compromised in a way he found very unsettling. What other thoughts had been planted in his head, if any? And who was this woman? Was she from T.H.R.U.S.H.? Why was she giving the Command the details of this potentially deadly device?

As Illya had said, too many questions.

The American thought about calling the Russian, but decided against it. He laid his head back on the pillow; it now pounding with a fierce headache.

With the help of Illya, he'd find out the answers to his questions; maybe not tomorrow, but eventually...


End file.
